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  Molly Grue Perfume Oil

  Molly said something strange then, for a woman who never slept a night through without waking many times to see if the unicorn was still there, and whose dreams were all of golden bridles and gentle young thieves. “It’s the princesses who have no time,” she said. “The sky spins and drags everything along with it, princesses and magicians and poor Cully and all, but you stand still. You never see anything just once. I wish you could be a princess for a little while, or a flower, or a duck. Something that can’t wait.”

  She sang a verse of a doleful, limping song, halting after each line as she tried to recall the next.

  ‘Who has choices need not choose.
  We must, who have none.
  We can love but what we lose –
  What is gone is gone.’

  Schmendrick peered over the unicorn’s back into Molly’s territory. “Where did you hear that song?” he demanded. It was the first he had spoken to her since the dawn when she joined the journey. Molly shook her head.

  “I don’t remember. I’ve known it a long time.”

  The land had grown leaner day by day as they traveled on, and the faces of the folk they met had grown bitter with the brown grass; but to the unicorn’s eyes Molly was becoming a softer country, full of pools and caves, where old flowers came burning out of the ground. Under the dirt and indifference, she appeared only thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old – no older than Schmendrick, surely, despite the magician’s birthdayless face. Her rough hair bloomed, her skin quickened, and her voice was nearly as gentle to all things as it was when she spoke to the unicorn. The eyes would never be joyous, any more than they could ever turn green or blue, but they too had wakened in the earth. She walked eagerly into King Haggard’s realm on bare, blistered feet, and she sang often.

  An angry little beetle with her own kitchen beauty: fig, sesame, hazelnut, and cooking spices softened by rice flower.

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  Dragon’s Heart Perfume Oil

  A scent pulsing with vitality, warmth and insurmountable strength: dragon’s blood resin, red and black musks, a throb of fig and a sliver of black currant.

  Out of Stock This product has multiple variants. The options may be chosen on the product page
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  On Work Perfume Oil

  You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.
  For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life’s procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.
  When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.
  Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?
  Always you have been told that work is a curse and labour a misfortune.
  But I say to you that when you work you fulfil a part of earth’s furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born,
  And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life,
  And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life’s inmost secret.
  
  But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow, then I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written.
  You have been told also that life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.
  And I say that life is indeed darkness ‘save when there is urge,
  And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge,
  And all knowledge is vain save when there is work,
  And all work is empty save when there is love;
  And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God.
  
  And what is it to work with love?
  It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.
  It is to build a house with affection, even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.
  It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.
  It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit,
  And to know that all the blessed dead are standing about you and watching.
  Often have I heard you say, as if speaking in sleep, “He who works in marble, and finds the shape of his own soul in the stone, is nobler than he who ploughs the soil. And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in the likeness of man, is more than he who makes the sandals for our feet.”
  But I say, not in sleep but in the overwakefulness of noontide, that the wind speaks not more sweetly to the giant oaks than to the least of all the blades of grass;
  And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving.
  
  Work is love made visible.
  And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.
  For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man’s hunger.
  And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distils a poison in the wine. And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man’s ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.

  Work is love made visible, so let’s all chip in and do the work. White sandalwood, fig, bourbon vanilla, and angelica.

  The sales from February and March’s scents from the Prophet series (On Giving, On Eating & Drinking, On Work, and On Joy & Sorrow) benefit the ACLU because we are in desperate need of civil rights protections right now. The Take Action area of their website presents handy opportunities for speaking out against current and ongoing injustices, even if you only have a few minutes to spare.

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  Sissy, The Ascendant Perfume Oil

  Sassafras and smoke for black vulture feathers, and King mandarin and red musk for the deep red-orange of the vulture’s face. Blue lilac and chamomile / opoponax and vetiver for the blue and black of her eyes. Vanilla bean and fig represent her innate goodness and instinctive kindness.

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